Gilbert's Diary
by LaurelSilver
Summary: Collection of drabbles and stories centred mostly around the second player characters. Rated T for expletives, horror and sex references. Warnings for gore, horror, body horror. Further individual warnings at the beginning of chapters.
1. Pineapple

**Characters;  
Lorenzo 'North Italy' Vargas  
Nikolai 'Russia' Braginski  
Lutz 'Germany' Weillschmidt**

**Pairings; GerIta**

**Summary; Lorenzo is eating pineapple**

* * *

Lorenzo pokes at the open tin with his fork, expression pulled down in disgust. "I actually really hate the taste of pineapple."  
"Then why are you eating it?" Nikolai asks dully.  
"Lutz likes it."  
"What?"

* * *

**For those of you that don't get it; it's a blowjob joke  
**

**This was inspired by another story I write called Ashes to Dust. It's not going to be too important; this will basically be a dumping ground for random ideas, prompts and writing exercises.  
****However, I will mention that in Ashes to Dust 2p!Prussia is dead, so will not be in this. His 1p! and a few others may appear instead.  
Any information you need, and my own headcannons, will be here in the author's note**

**Short, sparse and shit chapter to start with, but it should get more story, less notey. Should.**

**I own nothing. Except Ashes to Dust. Even then, I don't own the characters. Or even the plot; it was a collaboration.  
****-Laurel Silver**


	2. Our Loved Ones

**Characters:  
Seamus 'North Ireland' Kirkland  
Luke 'Wales' Kirkland  
Rhiona 'Republic of Ireland' Kirkland  
Scottie 'Scotland' Kirkland  
Lutz 'Germany' Weillschmidt  
Gilbert 'Prussia' Weillschmidt  
Nikolai 'Russia' Braginski  
Kuro 'Japan' Honda**

**Pairings; Irish twins, Celtic Siblings, GerIre**

**Summary; how Lutz got the scar on his cheek**

**WARNINGS; rape and trauma, violence and gore, tense changes**

* * *

_The other universe, one hundred-ish years ago_

_Whatever I want, _

_I will get_

Seamus threw his clothes across the bathroom, as far away from himself as he could. Blood stained his fingertips, leaving marks on everything he touched as he climbed into the bath/shower. He turned the water as hot as it could go, and as the steam rose around him it still wasn't hot enough, and he scrubbed at his pinking shin with the soap, his nails scraping at his flesh as blood mixed with water, running down his legs, ankles, feet, and spirals down the plug.

Blinded with tears, fear and pain, he squeezed the soap too tight and it slipped through his fingers to the floor. He stooped to pick it up, and the water beating down onto his back felt like a heavy hand caressing far too low, and he collapsed to the puddled floor with a scream, sobbing and crying uncontrollably.

Luke hammered on the door, "Seamus? Seamus, what's wrong?"

Seamus didn't answer. He could hardly hear his brother over the noise of water falling uselessly against the tiles. The door rattled as Luke continued to knock and yell, the wood trembling under his heavy fists. It stopped suddenly, and the lock turned, as if on it's own.

Rhiona dashed through, slamming the door in Luke's face and locking it before he could follow her. She shut off the water, grabbing her twin's attention.

They sat together on the wet floor, Rhiona allowing Seamus to sob into her shoulder. She carefully wiped the last of the blood off him, as gently as she could over scratches and bruises. Thin lines of purple encircled his wrists, deep nail marks lined his thighs and lower back, and handprints blossomed over his hips.

The door broke under Luke's fist, Scottie following the Welshman in.

As Luke kept demanding to know "What the hell's going on? Why is there blood? Why are you crying? Why are you wet?", Scottie pulled the first aid kit out from under the sink. He was careful as he rubbed salve into the bruises around Seamus's wrists, allowing the Irishman to do the rest himself after he flinched under a touch to his leg.

"Who did this?" Luke demanded.

Again, Seamus didn't answer. He just stared down at his leg, still rubbing at the lines on the underside, the salve long soaked in, Scottie still knelt in front of him with the tub held out.

Luke had to carry him out, Seamus refusing to move, refusing to speak. Wrapped in a towel, Seamus allowed himself to be carried downstairs to the living room, limp as a rag doll. He was laid down over the settee, head on the armrest and body stretched out.

"Who did this?" Luke repeated. Seamus still didn't answer, simply staring at his brother emptily.

Scottie gave a grunt, pointing at the bookcase.

"Yeah, a story," Luke agreed, "Rhiona, go grab a book, there's a dear."

Rhiona pulled down a large orange book, and perched herself on the edge of the settee. With a wince of pain, Seamus sat up, leaning against her as she opened the book. He pointed at the page, and Rhiona flipped on to another section. He pointed again, and Rhiona frowned. She pointed, then dragged her finger to one side of the page, then the other. Seamus pointed, and slowly dragged his finger to the left.

Rhiona threw the book down, standing up. Seamus yelled in Gaelic, Scottie only understanding the words "Danger" and "Please", after his twin as she wrapped her plait around itself to form a large bun, marching out of the house. The orange-bound atlas lay on the floor, open on a map of Europe, a line left by Seamus's fingernail torn from the edge of the page to Germany.

* * *

_I'll take the beatings too,_

_And all the blame_

Lutz growls as he examined the frayed cord. Made mostly of plastic, it have been should be practically impossible to break out of. Although Lutz already knew that the Kirkland siblings are a bunch of determined bastards when they want to be, he wasn't expecting Seamus to escape so quickly. He'd had a lot planned for the redhead.

A heavy knock resounded at the door. Armed with his Luger, loaded and cocked, he walked to the front door and leant on it, peeking through the spy hole. Red hair and freckles stood there, staring dead ahead at the door, statue still.

Without thinking, Lutz opened the door. "Back again? Missed me?"

He reeled backwards as Rhiona punched him squarely in the face.

"I was going to be nice to you over running away, since you came back," Lutz scolded 'Seamus', "But I can't forgive lashing out- you're not Seamus."

Rhiona kicked him in the stomach. Doubled over, Lutz tucked his head down and tumbled away, out of the way of the angry woman's boots. He crouched and dove back, wrapping his arms around her legs and dragging her down onto the floor with him.

They wrestled there, Rhiona very clearly outmatched by the bulky German but refusing to bend to his will, biting and scratching and kicking, until Lutz managed to flip her over and pin her to the floor with her arm twisted behind her back. She didn't make a noise, or even change her expression from a blank stare, as he continued to twist her arm until her shoulder dislocated.

He pulled her up, holding her by her injured arm as he glared down at her. She stared back evenly, lips pursed for several seconds until she peeled them back and spat on his face.

Smoothly, Lutz grabbed her forearm with both hands and slams it down, kicking his knee up to meet it, and the Irishwoman's bone snapped on impact. He held her by the wrist and the elbow, pulling and twisting and pushing, until he forced the skin to stretch over the break, the splinters stabbing through the skin, the break becoming a bloody mess of broken skin and spears of bone.

Rhiona still refused to make a noise. Her teeth were grinding, tears were welling in her eyes; her mask of indifference was cracked, but remained unbroken.

Lutz dragged her to the kitchen, securing her to the handle of a drawer by her unbroken arm with a plastic tie, not intending to lose two of the Kirklands in one day. That would just be embarrassing. He turned away, getting on with cooking a large pot of pasta.

Something bounced off Rhiona's boot. She looked down to see a marble rolling away, having rebounded off her foot, towards the kitchen door. Gilbert laid there, staring up at her.

The Prussian caught the marble and stood up right. He held up a pair of scissors and pointed to the plastic tie. Rhiona, not above accepting help when she needs it, nodded. Gilbert snuck into the room, almost silent. But instead of cutting the tie like Rhiona had expected, he pressed the handles of the scissors into her good hand and retreated.

Rhiona cut through the tie with some difficulty, having to position the scissors with the injured hand and bend the bound hand almost in half in order to close them. The snip seemed loud to her, and she froze, but Lutz was too preoccupied with boiling water to hear it.

The bubbling of the boiling water was louder then her footsteps, stepped carefully onto her toes to stop her heels from clicking against the tile. He didn't know she was there until she'd thrown her injured arm over his shoulder and around his torso, and the open blades of the scissors were digging into his cheek.

Mercilessly she cut, opening and closing the scissors repeatedly as she drove them into his cheek. He yelled in pain, the movement stretching the skin and causing it to rip and tear.

He shoved her away, seizing the closest thing to him, the pot of water, and throwing it. Rhiona put her arms up to defend herself, knocking the pot away, the force sending a bolt of pain through her broken limb, boiling water over spilling onto her legs and soaking her trousers, burning her skin. She dove at him, forcing his head back, trying to push his head into the open flame on the stove.

He shoved her away again, grabbing a large knife and slashing at her. Rhiona grabs the pan, still hot and heavy, and blocked the knife, tossing the water over him. Lutz slipped as he retreated from the scalding liquid, falling flat on his backside. Rhiona swung down with the pot, smacking him in the head with it. He fell to the side with a grunt.

Rhiona knelt next to him, taking the scissors again and swung them down from high above her head down into his opened cheek. Teeth broke, and Lutz screamed. Rhiona took the pot again, bringing it down repeatedly onto his head until his body had stopped moving and his blood and brains and broken skull sat in a thick mush on the floor.

Gilbert offered to re-set her arm as she stalked out of the front door. He wasn't surprised, or even offended, when she blatantly ignored his existence.

* * *

_But, __**brother**__, you're the one_

_That I've missed_

Seamus re-set her arm. He was dressed, in thick, covering clothes, his wrists had been bandaged, and the tub of salve was never far away from him. He smelt strongly of it, covering up the usual smells of alcohol and cigarette smoke and burnt sugar.

It hurt. Rhiona screamed. It was the first noise she had made in a long while.

* * *

_I'm grateful that we have_

_Our loved ones_ _near_

Society may have deteriorated over the last hundred years, and Lutz may be one of Nikolai's best workers, but Nikolai is still a merciless bastard. Scottie swears that Gilbert was half-smiling as he had handed Lutz over for punishment, Kuro cackling something about pliers and testicles.

Nikolai does something, that damned Russian is always doing _something_, to cause Rhiona's work on Lutz's cheek to remain, even after everything else regenerates. Nikolai allows Kuro to study Lutz's teeth, gums and jaw through the open wound, cutting into him further to investigate further into the anatomy Kuro is already well familiar with, Lutz having no option but to sit there and take his punishment.

"Irischlampe," Lutz calls Rhiona now. Irish-bitch. As if his punishment is her fault.

Rhiona and Seamus have been inseparable since. Rhiona is determined to protect her brother. Seamus is afraid of being alone. Some people call the close bond, the inseparability, between Rhiona and Seamus a 'twin thing'. Rhiona and Seamus are unsure whether they would agree or disagree with that.

* * *

**The lyrics used in this chapter are from Our Loved Ones by Volbeat. Whoo, Danish Metal!  
Somehow, this song always inspires this scene for me. I'm not overly sure why.**

**Oliver (England) uses Scottie to get a large amount of the 'ingredients' for his cannibal cupcakes, leaving Scottie weak and easily tired. He tries to stay strong, and avoids tiring himself out with mundane things like talking  
Lutz accepts that what he did to Seamus was wrong. He thinks Rhiona caving his head in was a step too far (I don't) and that Nikolai forcing him to keep the scar is pointless  
Rhiona doesn't talk a lot  
Kuro like torturing people**

**I own nothing  
-Laurel Silver **


	3. Tied in a bow

**Characters;  
Nikolai 'Russia' Braginski  
Lutz 'Germany' Weillschmidt**

**Pairing; the Henchmen**

**Summary; Lutz finds Nikolai asleep and decides to play a prank**

* * *

Nikolai sleeps, slumped unceremoniously over his desk. The ends of his scarf trail out behind him.

"Yo, Boss!" The door opens and Lutz steps through, freezing at the sight. He stares, then grins wide as an idea seizes him.

He kicks his boots off and pads across the room, almost silent without the hard soles under him. He creeps around the desk, behind Nikolai. Gently picking up the scarf ends, he fold on end and wraps the other round it, and pulls it through into a bow.

He stands back, grinning at his handiwork. Then frowns as the bow unfastens, as if some invisible person had grabbed the ends as pulled them apart, unravelling the loose knot. The ends rise and lunge, wrapping around Lutz's shoulders and under his arms, hoisting the bulky German into the air.

Lutz goes flying over the desk, and lands several feet in front of it with a thud. Nikolai jumps, looking around blearily before his gaze find Lutz sprawled across the floor.

"What are you doing here?" Nikolai asks bluntly.

"Oh, y'know, Boss, just lying around."

"Was that supposed to be some sort of pun?"

"Yeah... It didn't really work, did it?"

"It really didn't."

* * *

**Lutz and his goddamned puns. That one wasn't even a pun.  
**

**I've had this chapter written for a while, but forgot it existed. Whoops.  
Got another playlist-shuffle chapter to type up, so will be updating within the next couple of days**

**'The Henchmen' are Matt, Lutz and Lorenzo, who are Nikolai's main subordinates. I started referring to them as the henchmen after listening to the Oogie Boogie song from Nightmare before Christmas. I think it suits them; Matt is Shock, Lutz is Barrel, Lorenzo is Lock and Nikolai is Oogie Boogie.**

**I own nothing  
-Laurel Silver**


	4. Shuffle - After the Wars

**I had a free lesson and hadn't written anything in a while, so I decided to do one of those playlist-shuffle things.**

**If you don't know what that is, you put your music playlist on shuffle and pick a basic group of characters (I picked Nikolai and his Henchmen). You write down the title and the band of the song, and write about those characters inspired by the song. If you're unfamiliar with the song, don't know the lyrics, it doesn't have lyrics or it's a long song it's okay to skip it.**

**This probably won't be the last time I do this. It was surprisingly fun. **

* * *

**Characters;  
Nikolai 'Russia' Braginski  
Lutz 'Germany' Weilschmidt  
Lorenzo 'North Italy' Vargas  
Matt 'Canada' Williams  
Yekaterina 'Ukraine Braginskya  
Al S. 'America' Jones  
Yang 'China' Wao  
Young-Su 'Korea' Im  
**

**Pairings; GerIta, FACE family**

**Summary; Playlist shuffle**

**WARNINGS; war mentions**

* * *

'**Cusp of Eternity' by Opeth**

_The other universe, about five centuries in the future_

Being the last person on Earth is nothing short of depressing. And being immortal is bringing Nikolai zero comfort.

The sun beats down. The ground under Nikolai's bare feet is hard, dry and thick, Nikolai having to use an axe and sheer brute force to break through it. It takes three feet of digging to find soft soil to shove the seeds into.

And then there is very little water. Nikolai has gathered up bottles of water and alcohol, currently opting to give the water to the plants and keep the alcohol for himself.

A cloud moves over the sun, thick and grey and heavy, left over from the pollution. They usually don't hold water but finally, after almost four centuries of dry land and heavy bottles, this cloud splits and cold, slightly acidic, salty water stings Nikolai's peeling cheeks as it begins to rain.

'**Filth' by No Sin Evades This Gaze**

_This universe, three years in the future_

"I know I've been here before," Lutz says tiredly, "But nothing looks familiar."

"It's just an alternate universe," Lorenzo says.

"It's so _green_."

"They haven't been through the Wars. Their greenery is still alive."

"Do you think we could have life like this back in our universe?" Lutz asks.

"We do. We've got the Farms, remember?"

"Yeah, but…" Lutz pauses to sigh and think, "I mean, like, _proper_ greenery. Like, meadows and forests and stuff like that."

Lorenzo doesn't answer for several seconds. "Maybe. It'd take a damn long time, and fuckton of work, but maybe."

'**Problem' by The Sex Pistols**

_The other universe, about four centuries in the future. Matt has been dead for about one century._

"Why are you here?" Nikolai asks shortly.

"We figured it was high time someone came down here to tell you what to do," Matt answers calmly. His white clothes, traditional Native clothing he had worn as a child, seem to glow. White doesn't really suit Matt, but, of course, he doesn't seem to care.

"And if I don't listen to you?" Nikolai retorts.

"You'll be alone here for a lot longer. We can't repopulate the Earth if it's dead."

"What if I like being alone?"

Matt snorts. "We all saw how you cried over my dead body. You're going insane down here."

"How do I know you're not an illusion? I'm not making you up in my head?"

"I haven't got an answer to that," Matt says with a shrug, "But nourishing the Earth back into health can't exactly hurt you, can it? It'll give you something to do, at least."

Nikolai growls, then sighs in defeat. "Fine. But how am I supposed to sort this?" he kicks the ground beneath him, sending dust flying into the air, "And I'm not a gardener. Send Yekaterina."

"She doesn't want to come," Matt says, "And you _can_ 'sort this'. You used to do gardening in Serbia, remember?"

"But look at this!" Nikolai yells in anger, gesturing to the desolate wasteland surrounding them.

"Not my problem. And it's mostly your fault, anyway. The problem here is you."

'**Amerika' by Rammstein**

_The other universe, about one hundred and fifty years ago_

It was Al who dropped the first bombs. No one is sure how, and he's never explained how, but he somehow disabled the MAD system and pressed the Big Red Button.

He sent the first one to Germany, but missed in his haste, hitting Poland instead. Nikolai had retaliated first, followed by Yang and the Young-Su, hitting big red buttons to devastate the United States of America.

The Korean bomb's range spread over the South of Canada. Britain retaliates to the bombing of his boys with his own weaponry, and France copies.

Matt runs to the only place he thinks might be safe; North. Full of ice to absorb the radiation leaking from his body, he runs until he loses his way, the snow blinds him, and he collapses, exhausted, in a place too cold and emptily white for his recognise.

'**Sweet Tooth' by Marilyn Manson**

_The other universe, about one hundred years ago_

Matt tears the kitchen apart, ripping doors off their hinges and dragging everything out of the cupboards onto the floor. Nikolai sits calmly at the kitchen table, sipping his tea, smoothly dodging flying cans and kitchen utensils.

"Where have you hidden them?!" Matt slams his hands onto the table, hissing through his teeth. This is the angriest Nikolai has ever seen him. His parents would cry to see him.

"Where have I hidden _what_?" Nikolai asks innocently.

"The sweet stuff."

"It isn't healthy for you," Nikolai scolds.

"I will break you," Matt snarls.

"I'd like to see you try."

* * *

**Nikolai is the last 'person' on Earth. Matt is the last 'person' to die.  
The Wars were bad. Most of humanity was wiped out, and the rest struggled to survive.  
Nikolai isn't hallucinating angel!Matt, he is actually there  
The MAD (Mutually Assured Destruction) is a system in place that if (for example) America sends a nuclear bomb, the nearest country with nuclear weaponry to the American bomb's destination automatically sends a bomb to , hitting the Big Red Button is assured suicide for whoever presses it  
Matt wanders into Alaska. That's where Nikolai finds him. Matt then becomes Nikolai's underling  
Marilyn Manson's 'Sweet Tooth' isn't actually about looking for sweet foods, but Matt has one hell of a sweet tooth. Nikolai hides sweet things from him, mostly to use as a reward for Matt's cooperation**

**Let's play; Guess Laurel's favourtie music genre!  
Metal is useful for writing dystopia.**

**I own nothing  
-Laurel Silver**


	5. Falling asleep

**Characters:  
Nikolai 'Russia' Braginski  
Matt 'Canada' Williams  
Joshua 'Alaska' Jones  
Lorenzo 'Veneziano' Vargas  
Lutz 'Germany' Wellschmidt  
Matthias 'Denmark' Kohler  
Loki 'Norway' Bondevik  
Susan 'Sweden' Oxenstierna  
Gilbert 'Prussia' Wellschmidt  
Taisto 'Finland' Vainamoinen  
Emilio 'Iceland' Steilsson  
Alfred 'America' Jones  
Francois 'France' Bonnefoy  
Oliver 'England' Kirkland  
Tonio 'Spain' Fernandez Carriedo  
Flavio 'Romano' Vargas  
Scottie 'Scotland' Kirkland  
Will 'Wales' Kirkland  
Seamus and Rhiona 'Ireland' Kirkland  
Orlender 'Ladonia' Oxenstierna  
Eadwine 'Kugelmugel' Edelstein**

**Pairings; GerIta, DenNor, SuFin, SpaMano, Alaskan family (suggesting past RusAme), FrUK, FACE family, RusCan**

**Summary; Nikolai is unceremoniously woken up too early, to find Matt has been kidnapped. **

**Note; from Nikolai's point of view  
Warnings; gore, death, sex references  
**

* * *

The_ other universe, about twenty years ago_

It is still dark when I wake up, and I decide I hate February, just as I have decided every morning for the past thirteen mornings. Matt says I just hate everything. I say I just hate mornings.

I am unsure what woke me up. If it had been the usual six o'clock bell, I would be able to hear Lorenzo effing and blinding from the basement, but the house is eerily silent. Sitting upright, I peer out of the window until I can make out the time on the clock tower; half past five. This is far too early to be awake.

But, it is far too late to go back to sleep. Begrudgingly, I get up and dressed, not bothering to be quiet; if I am awake, everyone else can be awake too. I pull my sleeves down firmly, buttoning the cuff over the fading Ace of Clubs tattoo over my inner wrist. Joshua has often asked what the tattoo means, but I haven't yet graced him with an answer.

I leave my bedroom. Matt's bedroom door is hung open, and his boots are missing from the end of his bed. Matt has always been a restless sleeper, barely able to sleep more than two hours at a time. He often drops asleep at his desk. I often let him, pretending not to notice when he sluggishly wakes up, making loud noises to wake him should someone come into the room.

I stamp downstairs. Lorenzo yells from the basement, barely audible through the floor, and I laugh. There is a strong smell of coffee, stronger than usual, and a cold draught.

The kitchen door is hung open, the light is on. Glass litters the floor, steaming coffee still spreading slowly through the cracks in the tiles. A pan, empty, is heating on the stove and beginning to smoke. The door to the outside is also hung open.

I go through, stepping over the coffee and turning off the stove as I pass. Outside, I can't see anybody, but piles of rubble closeby have been knocked over, and dust has been scraped through; there has obviously been a struggle, and I vaguely realise this is probably what woke me up.

I produce a ball of light and scout it around. Matt seems to have put up a fairly good fight; the circumference of the struggle area is a good few yards around the kitchen door. But he seems to have lost in the end. I search for marks in the dust to show where he'd been dragged to, or some footprints, but I can't find either. Whoever had grabbed him had been careful to leave no trace of themselves.

I storm back inside. I don't like being woken up, and being woken up by someone kidnapping my underling doesn't sweeten that. Today is taking a turn for the shitty.

"Lutz!" I shout in the hallway. The German makes some guttural shout in response. "Have you seen Matt?"

Lutz shouts again, but I can't work out whatever the lazy soldier's saying and stomp down into the basement. Lorenzo shrieks as I walk in, diving out of Lutz's lap to cover himself up. Lutz makes no move to cover himself, staring dumbly at me, and it is ridiculously obvious what the pair had been up to.

"I suppose you haven't seen him, then," I say plainly, careful to look no lower than Lutz's face.

"Seen who?" is his response.

I want to punch him, but I'd feel weird punching a naked man. "Matt."

"Oh. No. Only seen Lorenzo today. And you, obviously. Why, is he missing?"

"I wouldn't be looking for him if I knew where he was."

"Are you sure he hasn't gone to the library?" Lorenzo asks, finally shoving some blanket up to Lutz's waist, "He fucking loves books. I wouldn't be surprised if he spends today there."

"He's not allowed to be in the library. He needs to be in the office, with me."

"_Ve~_" Lorenzo grins, and Lutz sniggers.

"Keep your dirty stupidity to yourself," I snap, "Clean yourselves up."

"Later, Boss," Lutz answers as I turn to leave, and Lorenzo smacks him on the shoulder.

* * *

The Library at the opposite side of the community is a huge building of multiple sections what used to yellow and white bricks, but after almost two centuries of going uncleaned it has become black with dust and muck. The huge steps probably used to be full of locals and tourists, but are now desolate, broken, and perilous to run up and down. The only people who come here now are Matthias, Loki and Susan to find Matthias, and Matt in his spare time. Gilbert used to, and a drawing he etched into the wood of the door of the Prussian Eagle is still there, unfixed.

I open the door, and it creaks loudly. Matthias is not behind the desk as he usually is, but a half-drunk bottle of beer sits on the desktop, meaning Matthias is here somewhere.

"Matt?" I shout.

A thud to my left. Matthias creeps out from behind a bookshelf, a copy of The Borrowers in his hands. His hair is flat and thin, his clothes have faded to pink and grey, the ex-Viking's toned figure wasted down into a hollow bag of bones barely holding together. "I thought you were Loki."

"Do I look anything like Loki?" I snap. "Have you seen Matt?"

"Not today, no. Not for about a week. He didn't leave you a note or anything?"

"No. Because he was kidnapped," I remember, and smack a hand to my forehead.

"You forgot he was kidnapped?"

"I... There was a naked German and everything was just weird!"

A ghost of an old grin pulls at Matthias's mouth, "That impressive?"

I resist the urge to punch him in the face. He'd probably break, then I'd have Susan, Taisto and Emilio on my back, and there is no amount of alcohol to get me drunk enough to deal with all three of them at once.

"But who even _would_ kidnap Matt?" Matthias wonders aloud, "He doesn't really have enemies, except Al but he's nowhere near forward-thinking enough to kidnap someone. You don't really have enemies, aside from a few people with grudges against you because of the Wars, but none of them that I can think of would go as far as to kidnap Matt, especially with your temper."

"What temper?" I snap.

Matthias pauses, but doesn't answer. "Could be an enemy of François or Oliver."

"Tonio!" I yell.

"Really? I would have thought he'd be a bit... preoccupied."

"Preoccupied? He's only the treasurer."

Matthias stares at me. "You have no idea what day it is today, do you?"

"It's February, and that's all I know." I stopped caring about the date several years. Lorenzo insists on telling me the turn of every month.

"And what happens in February?"

"International Duties Memorial?" I guess.

"And what else?"

"Defender of the Fatherland Day?"

"And what else?"

"Maslenitsa? Sometimes..."

"Valentines Day!" Matthias snaps.

"We still celebrate that bullshit?"

"You still celebrate Defender of the Fatherland Day?"

"Of course. I love celebrating the fact my people were better than everyone else's."

Matthias raises his eyebrows at me. "Just go find Matt."

* * *

I leave the library. Tonio and Flavio live in a house across from the Main House I live in with Matt, Lutz and Lorenzo, making it easy for Tonio to grab Matt and drag him away, then clean up after himself. I really should have thought of it sooner. No matter; a punch to the face is the least Tonio will be receiving.

I don't notice Scottie until I almost fall over him. The Celt is on the floor,dragging himself through the dirt, both his legs are cut off below the knee and still bleeding.

"What are you doing?" I demand, dragging the man into a sitting position, pulling what's left of his trousers up to check the wounds. The flesh is ragged and red, his bone is visible, his muscles are swollen and useless. As seconds pass, the bleeding slows down and bone begins to stretch itself, healing Scottie slowly and probably painfully.

I sit opposite the Celt, and repeat the question; "What are you doing?"

"I was headed to the kids' dorms," Scottie pants, "I was gonna tell them stories."

"Why isn't Will with you?"

"Oliver got him. Wanted to cook something nice for Franny, he said. Drained Will and the twins dry, and hacked my legs off. Matt picked the lock so-"

"Matt? You've seen Matt?" I interrupt.

"Aye. Franny and Oliver dragged him in this morning, completely sedated. He woke up, realised where he was, and unpicked the lock on me. Oliver arrived before he could unpick himself, though."

"And you didn't think to come report this?"

"Who do I report it to?"

"Me."

"Not allowed in the Main House, and I can't go shouting up at you, especially if Oliver realises I'm gone."

I glare at him. He's completely right. We need a better issue-reporting system. Maybe assign that to Scottie and Will; get them both away from Oliver.

With a sigh, I let some of my scarf unravel and scoop up Scottie, hoisting him into the air as I stand up. I settle him on my back, his arms around my neck, holding him above the knees with my hands, my scarf still wrapped around his torso to support him. Blood soaks into the back and sleeves of my shirt but I've had larger amounts of blood on me in worse situations, so I don't make any overt acknowledgement.

The kids' dorm is in the clock tower. A few decades ago, the 'children' built a pulley-lift system for Scottie, the Celt going to the clock tower whenever he can to tell stories, but he is often too weak for the stairs. The first few attempts to build and manoeuvre the system had ended terribly, but Scottie had encouraged them, and eventually Lutz and Matt pulled together some of the other nations to help build the lift, little more than wood and rope that still breaks sometimes.

I set Scottie on the floor of the lift, the wood already stained with old blood. Scottie doesn't seem worried about it. By now about an inch of bone sticks out of each severed shin.

"Would you like a blanket?" I ask.

Scottie huffs a pained laugh. "They've seen me in worse conditions. I think they'll be fine."

I reach over the ring the bell, set up for Will to ring to alert the 'children' of their presence. I freeze as footsteps thud above me.

Joshua comes dashing down the stairs, and grins widely when he sees me. His grin is toothy, American, and he's a little chubby like Al, with the same dark, messy hair and too-big eyes. Matt jokes that Joshua has my nose, but I don't see it at all.

"I thought I heard you!" Joshua hollers, accent thickly American.

"Yes, yes, I brought Scottie," I answer.

"Scottie?" Joshua's face lights up, and he yells up the stairs; "Hey, guys! Scottie's here!"

Twittering of voices from above us, and the lift shakily begins its descent. Scottie chuckles at the greetings, smiling warmly up at the children.

I turn to leave, but a small hand grabs at my wrist. "Tell me about the tattoo."

"No," I say shortly. I push him away by the head, but he holds on to my wrist and jumps, hooking his legs around my upper arm and swinging from me like a monkey. "Let go of me."

"Not until you tell me."

"You are somehow more annoying than your father."

"It's an art form. Like tattoos."

I sigh. "Fine. Get off my arm, and I will tell you."

Joshua cheers. He jumps down, not letting go of my wrist as he unfastens the cuff of my shirt and shoves it up, revealing the tattoo among the sleeve of fading Russian gang symbols and sunflowers.

"The Ace of Clubs," I point to the A and three-circled symbol just below my wrist, "Is the symbol used by people with the same... sexuality as me to express it in a subtle way. Like a gang tattoo, but with hopefully less crime."

"I thought the gays had rainbows," Joshua says plainly.

I stare at him. "I'm not _gay_."

"I thought you were dating Matt."

"No."

"Huh," Joshua frowns, "But you're so much nicer to him than to everyone else."

"That's because he's competent and doesn't annoy me."

Joshua stares at me, expression difficult to read. Matt once said that Joshua gets that skill from me, and I am perfectly happy to take the credit for the trait. "So… what _does _the Ace of Clubs symbolise?"

"Demi-sexuality."

"Huh." Joshua furrows his brows. "Örlender has mentioned demi-gods before," he thinks aloud; definitely a trait from Al, "Which are... almost gods, but... not quite. And Eadwine has talked about demi-semi-quavers, which are... ridiculously short notes. So 'demi' means… little? Little-sexuality? Like… you're not attracted to many people? Or dwarves?"

"The first one. Sort of. I have to know the person really well before I am attracted to them."

"So… like you know Matt really well?"

"Yes, I do know Matt really well. But I am not attracted to him."

"Were you attracted to Dad?"

"No. He's an idiot. You weren't born conventionally; remember that."

Joshua nods. "Welp, that's one mystery solved."

"Come on Joshua!" a Germanic-sounding voice, so probably Eadwine, shouts, "Scottie's gonna tell the story about the Moving Castle again!"

"Gotta go; it one of my favourites!" Joshua runs up the stairs, waving back to me, practically bouncing up and down with excitement. Such an American.

* * *

I knock on the front door to Oliver's home. A few seconds pass, a series of thuds, and the door opens to Al's stupid, grinning face. I really want to punch him, but I get the feeling Oliver would get very upset, and that could make it more difficult for me to get Matt back.

"Yo, Ruski! What're ya doing here?" Al asks. He leans further out of the door, and I notice a metallic collar fastened tightly around his neck, the wide front sitting snugly just above his collar bones. Blood has dried just under it, and more dribbles out as he speaks.

"I'm looking for Matt," I answer.

"Are ya?" Al's grin thins into smirk, "What's ya need him for?"

"He has work to do."

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

"Plans to memorise, idiots to relay messages to, maps to annotate; the usual. I have reason to believe he's here."

"Do ya now? That reason wouldn't happen to involve our Scottie, would it?"

"There are very few people who would kidnap Matt. It was simply a matter of deduction."

"_Ooh_, check out Sherlock-ski Holmes-ski here!"

"Are you being a bother, Allan?" a voice, chirpy and Cockney, calls."

"_Al_, my name is _Al_," Al whines, "Alfred if you gotta, but definitely not _Allan_!"

"Nikolai, sweetheart!" Oliver gushes, shoving past Al to grab my wrist and drag me inside, "I didn't expect to see you here!"

"He's here for Matt," Al says, closing the door behind him, "Important day for couples, ya know."

"We are not a couple," I say firmly, "I simply don't appreciate my underling being kidnapped in the early hours of the morning."

"Oh, I do apologise. I'll give you forewarning next time." By this time, Oliver has lead me to the living room, directing me to an armchair.

Al sits in the other armchair. A three-person sofa sits opposite. François sits nearest Al, smoking a cigarette. A collar, similar to Al's but slightly cruder in cut, cradles his throat, the unsmoothed edges often nicking the skin of his neck and collar as he move his head around. Matt sits at the end nearest me, toying with a loose string of his shirt. His jacket is missing, probably still back at Main House. Instead of the collars Al and François wear, a chain has been padlocked around his neck, and I follow the metal links with my eyes to a heavy iron ring bolted to the floor by the end of the sofa.

"Cupcakes?" Oliver offers, appearing from the kitchen with a large plate.

Matt takes one, and I follow suit. The icing is purple with a black fondant flower. François takes a cake, biting into it without a thought, so used to the Brit's baking he probably stopped caring what's in it several decades ago.

Oliver holds the plate out to Al. Al throws a look of disgust at the gory 'treats', looks Oliver up and down, and scoffs openly. "Fuck off," he spits, "I ain't eatin' that shit."

Oliver freezes. Matt winces, and François just sighs. The tray of cupcakes drops to the floor with a bang, the sweets scattering at Oliver's feet.

"There was no need for that, poppet," Oliver says quietly.

"There was every fuckin' need for that," Al retorts, "Ya kidnap me at fuck-knows-what time this mornin', drag me here, an' try to feed me my own uncles, even though ya know I'm vegan. You're an ass. An' a psycho one at that."

The house is eerily silent for several long seconds. The quiet is broken by Oliver's clothes rustling as he shoves a hand in the pocket of his trousers and pulls out a small remote.

"You _had_ to," François sighs.

"I hadda what?" Al asks dumbly.

Oliver presses the remote's single button, and the collar around Al's neck clicks. Almost instantly Al gips, throwing his head back, hands flying to the collar. It clicks again, unfastening, and it falls away into Al's hands. A deep gash is open in his throat, blood spurting out erratically, Al gurgling as blood fills his lungs and windpipe.

It takes almost a full minute for him to die, Matt and I simply staring, myself in a mixture of shock, amusement and curiosity. Matt's mouth hangs open, eyes wide in alarm, cupcake dropped icing-down on the floor. And finally, Al slumps down in the chair, blood soaking the fabric, and the collar clatters to the floor.

"What just happened?" I ask.

"I invented it!" Oliver chirps, his anger melting away. Al's blood has sprayed over his face, almost completely covering his jaw and nose, but he doesn't seem to care.

"What is it?" I ask.

Oliver picks up the collar, bringing it closer to me. "Look; it has these two hooks," he points to the hooks, facing each others like pincers, "They go either side of the windpipe," he pushes them apart, each one clicking and holding open, "And when I press the button," he presses the button again and the hooks close, the sharp ends fitting snugly into two holes at the front of the collar that I hadn't noticed, "Severing the windpipe and a couple of arteries instantly. This one is Al's; extra-strong alloy I've got here. François's is the first one I made, and I haven't got round to making some for the rest of my lovelies. I want them to be _personalised_, you see, and that's a bit of a struggle. Oh! Maybe you can help me!"

"I can?" I asks, still toying with the collar.

"Yes. I simply don't know what to do with Matt's, and you know him very well-"

"Matt's what?"

Oliver blinks at me, startled and slightly annoyed, before his blood-stained face settles back into it's friendly grin, "Collar, of course."

"Why would you put a collar on my underling?" I says shortly.

"What?" Oliver asks, forcibly polite, "Matt is my little dear," he hugs Matt's head protectively, "He needs to stay here, where I can look after him and brush his hair and give him lots of sweets, and away from meanies like you."

"'Meanies like me'?" I echo.

"Yes. Always bossing people around and setting rules and fixing roles. Meanie."

"Forgive me for assuming a leadership role," I say flatly, "There is no need to collar Matt. He is perfectly well-behaved, as well as perfectly capable of looking after himself."

"But," Oliver pouts, "He's my little baby."

"So is Al, and you just ripped his throat out."

Oliver stares at me, still clutching Matt's head to his chest. Matt just leans there, hands hanging limply by his side, the Canuck seeming to have accepted his situation. François tuts, drives his cigarette butt into an ashtray on the middle, otherwise empty cushion, and stands up, putting his hands gently on Oliver's upper arms.

"Let's go get you cleaned up, _lapin_," he says gently.

Oliver shakily lets go of Matt, "Cleaned up?"

"Yes, _lapin_, you've got blood on your face." François pats Oliver on the hand, his other hand slipping discreetly into the Brit's pocket.

Oliver's fingers go to his cheek and pull away crimson. "Oh, so I do." He puts the fingers idly in his mouth, then away with an expression of disgust. "It's so bitter."

"I know, _lapin_," François coos, pushing Oliver gently towards the kitchen, before turning and hissing over his shoulder; "The alloy can break metal." He throws the remote to Matt and ushers Oliver to the kitchen, shutting the door behind him.

I quickly push the hooks of the collar down, pressing them until they click into place. I then organise the chain in between them, the links about half the size of the gap between them. I nod to Matt, and he presses the button. The hooks closed, the metal link breaking with a loud snap.

We both freeze for a second. There is only the sound of water running from the kitchen, and then a soft clatter as I let the chain fall to the floor.

Matt scurries out of the door into the hallway, opening the front door as quietly as he can. I follow him, pausing only to punch Al in the face before I leave.

* * *

Back home at the Main House, the coffee has been cleaned up, and whoever cleaned it up went straight, or gay, back to the basement, Lutz and Lorenzo making no effort to be quiet. Matt follows me to the office, and I cast a quick soundproofing charm to block the couple out.

"Carry on with memorising the plans," I order dully.

Matt takes his seat, a large chair at the end of my desk, without a word, picking up his book and glasses from the desk. I sit in my own chair, one that used to swivel but unfortunately has rusted into a fixed place, and look over my notes on the roles of the community members.

* * *

Hours pass. Oliver doesn't turn up, probably admitting defeat after losing Matt. Loki wanders past at around two in the afternoon, bleating for Matthias. I call to him that I'd seen Matthias near Tonio's house, and the Norwegian, dressed far too skimpily than I am comfortable with seeing him, wanders off. Lutz pads in, dressed lazily in a shirt and boxers to my gratitude, at around three with two large bowl of pasta, an almost overflowing jug of coffee, and a satisfied grin. He puts the tray of food on the desk and leaves, and Matt and I eat in silence. Matt fills his mug with coffee, and I pass him some packeted sugar, which he accepts with a quiet "thanks".

At five, Matt falls asleep, curled up in his chair. I slip out, ignoring the sounds from the basement as I sneak into the kitchen.

I use magic to make the fridge levitate. Under the fridge there are a series of loose floorboards, hiding a cooler box set into the floor about two centuries ago. Inside the cooler box is the stash of chocolate, sweets and maple syrup, hidden from Matt, not only for his health but for his loyalty and obedience.

I pick out three bars of chocolate and a medium-sized bottle of syrup, checking it's Canadian authenticity and the seal. The bottle is undamaged, the syrup is still gold, and Matt has never complained about off-tasting syrup or sweets before, so I assume it's still good enough.

I sneak upstairs, treading lightly on the steps. I put the bars and the bottle on Matt's pillow and sneak back downstairs and into the office. Matt hasn't stirred, and I leave him to sleep.

He sleeps for about an hour and a half before he yawns awake and continues reading, often mumbling under his breath.

* * *

As the clock tower chimes nine, Matt stands up, stretching. "I'm gonna go to bed, Boss. Been a bit of a mad day."

"Fine," I dismiss him with a wave of my hand. Matt walks out, closing the door behind him.

I sit for about ten minutes, finishing re-allocating Seamus, Rhiona and Will into reporting roles, and Scottie into a supervising, specifically of the 'children', role. I'll send Lorenzo with the news tomorrow.

I wander upstairs, yawning. I don't like being woken up early.

In my room, I take off my scarf and fold it up in my hands, the wool coarse and dense against my fingers. I stare blankly, the addition to my room taking several seconds to register. On my pillow sits a bottle of vodka, the label blue with silver Cyrillic lettering.

I drop my scarf and snatch the bottle up, turning it around in my hands and reading the label carefully. Proper Russian vodka, bottled in St Petersburg two hundred and fifty years ago, labelled twelve units but two and a half centuries of sitting around wherever it was hidden will have refined and distilled it. I haven't had proper Russian vodka in far too long.

I turn the lid, and the seal breaks with a satisfying crack. I take a sip, and the liquid burns my throat as it goes down, stronger than anything I have any memory of drinking. I smile a little dizzily, swilling the clear liquid around the bottle.

I wander out of my room, stopping at Matt's door and knocking. Matt answers with a muffled grunt, and I open the door.

"Vodka?" I offer, holding the bottle up.

Matt isn't surprised to see the bottle. Probably for the same reason I'm not surprised to see the half-eaten chocolate bar in his hands. He stares for a few seconds before he gulps his mouthful of chocolate down and answers; "Sure. Chocolate?" he holds one of the bars out to me.

I pause, and realise the reason Matt paused was out of shock. I do not share vodka, especially not good-quality vodka, and Matt does not share sweets. "Sure."

I sit on his bed next to him, taking the chocolate bar and letting Matt take the vodka. He takes a large swig, choking on its burn, and I laugh as I unwrap the chocolate.

Sometime around ten, Matt falls asleep leant on my shoulders. Too tired to move, I lean back against him and drift off, chocolate wrapper scrunched in my hand.

I am woken by the Lorenzo swearing at the six am bell. Matt is still asleep on my shoulder.

* * *

**Whoo platonic love!**

**The story about the moving castle refers to Howl's Moving Castle  
Oliver has suppressed memory problems, and he often forgets things  
Matt is addicted to sweet things**

**I own nothing  
-Laurel Silver**


	6. Attire

**Characters:  
Lily 'Liechtenstein' Zwingli  
Al 'America' Jones  
Natasha 'Belarus' Arlovskya  
Susan 'Sweden' Oxenstierna  
Kuro 'Japan' Honda  
Taisto 'Finland' Vainamoinen  
Lutz 'Germany' Wellschmidt  
Lorenzo 'Veneziano' Vargas**

**Pairing; LiechBel, SuFin, GerIta**

**Summary; the soldiers are getting ready for a party, but Lily simply doesn't suit dresses**

**NOTE; Susan is a man. His name comes from Kuro often forgetting his real name, so would call him Su-san, meaning Mister Sweden. This became Susan, and the name stuck.**

* * *

The_ other universe, twenty years in the future_

Lily walks slowly down the stairs, careful to plant her feet firmly on each step, holding the lacy skirts of her dress high to avoid getting herself tangled. The skirt drags her down, heavy around her hips and keeps bouncing of her heels and shins. The corset around her waist is tight and feels like it's trying to crush her ribs. The tissue shoved down her front is uncomfortable and keeps shifting about, trying to slide down under her corset. Her face feels greasy, her hair feels dry and heavy, the tiara is squeezing her skull.

She finally reaches the bottom, and drops the skirts. The hem reaches the floor, and Lily shoves her hand down the front of the dress, pulling out the tissue wads and throwing them away. She's too small for the top of this dress, but she hates the dress in general; a reminder that she's got tiny tits can't make wearing the dress any worse.

"Woah," a voice, American-sounding, drawls, "You look… beautiful."

The rest of the military, all men, stare at her. Lily stares back evenly. Natasha is nowhere to be seen, but her voice can be heard from the next room, chattering to Susan as to whether she should wear the ribbon that goes with her dress.

"We don't see you in dresses often," Kuro says politely, "Forgive us for staring."

"It doesn't suit you," Taisto says bluntly, "You look uncomfortable."

"I hate it," Lily admits, "It _is_ really uncomfortable."

"Do you have a suit?" Taisto asks.

"No, just this and my army gear. It's fine-"

Lutz grabs her by the arm, dragging her back up the stairs. "Being comfortable is more important than being pretty."

"I agree," Susan calls from the next room.

Lutz drags Lily back to her room, lets her go, and begins to take off his Italian-designer suit.

"What are you doing?" Lily asks bluntly.

"You don't have a suit," Lutz answers, "This is a suit."

"But then what will you wear?"

"I'll wear the dress. These trousers are too small for me anyway. Lorenzo just threw it at me this morning."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I don't care either way, but you do. Now take the dress off- or are you gonna need help?"

"I'll need help."

The soldiers swap clothes, Lily tying the coset firmly around Lutz's larger waist, the German's chest filling the top better than she could have. He's taller than she is, the hem reaching his ankles, showing his polished shoes. Lily dresses herself as Lutz twirls in front of the mirror, the shirt being a little long until she tucks it in. The blazer dwarfs her, so she leaves it, adjusting the waistcoat to fit her snugly instead. She knots the tie loosely, and pulls on her polished ankle boots instead of her high heels.

They walk down the stairs arm-in-arm, Lutz swishing the held-up skirts back and forth as he walks.

"I'm not sure why, but this," Al gestures to them and their clothes, "Seems a lot better."

"It's because I am fucking beautiful," Lutz says plainly.

"And I am beautiful," Lorenzo quips, leaning against the front door. Lutz grins.

"Taisto told me you were changing clothes," Susan twitters, strutting through from the next room, his suit well-fitted, "So I grabbed you these," he hold up a pair of shoes with small heels on them, "We're the same shoe size, but don't worry; I haven't worn these. I just don't think _those_ shoes go with _that_ dress."

"Oh. Thanks." Lutz takes the shoes and sits himself down on the stairs.

Natalya pads into the hallway. Her dress is a lilac Lolita dress, the skirt puffy with the ends of the petticoats sticking out just above her knees. The collar reaches her neck, the blouse almost see-through over her shoulders and arms, solid underdress fitting her slim form well. Her tights are white, her mary-janes are black, the matching lilac ribbon is clenched in her fist.

"Doesn't she look lovely?" Susan gushes.

"You say that as if there are times she doesn't," Lily retorts smoothly.

Natalya looks Lily up and down, smiles, and pulls the soldier into a hug and a kiss. "You scrub up well."

"Thanks," Lily answers, "Didn't want to make you look bad."

Natalya toys with the tie around Lily's neck, and unfastens it. She puts her lilac hair ribbon there instead, tying it in a neat bow and folding the shirt's collar over it. Lily pulls off her tiara and puts it on Natalya's head, organising her hair over the metallic headband.

"Is it hot in here or is it just me?" Lutz quips from the stairs, and Lorenzo smacks him on the shoulder.

Taisto helps pull Lutz up, the German seeming to be perfectly used to wearing heels. A few of the soldiers shoot Lorenzo a look, who simply smirks.

"Are we going yet?" Al whines.

"No, we all thought we'd stand here all night, miss the party," Kuro retorts.

"I wouldn't mind missing the party," Lorenzo says, wrapping his arm around Lutz's waist.

"Nu-uh!" Taisto snaps, throwing the front door open and grabbing Susan by the hand, "If I can't get out of this bullshit, you can't either!"

Taisto leads the way out with Susan, then Al, then Lorenzo and Lutz, then Kuro. Lily holds her arm out, and Natalya links her arm around Lily's, and the girlfriends bring up the rear of the group.

* * *

**I wasn't sure how to end this, sorry.  
Comes from a Tumblr post about the 'tomboys becoming pretty and desirable when they put a dress on' cliché in a lot of films, and how it would be good if the tomboy was told just go put a suit on, someone else will wear the dress. **

**In the military;  
Kuro is the highest rank  
****Then Lutz, but only because he's Nikolai's lackey  
****Then Lily  
****Taisto is the main riflesman  
****Al is only involved in the military occassionally. He's too trigger happy for everyone's liking  
****Chuckie (Sealand) Joshua (Alaska) and Paulette (Wy) are all scouts  
****The military is used for defence against animals, mutants, any other potential outside dangers, and to give everyone involved some feeling of responsibility  
****There are probably other nations also in the military, but the military is still very small. These are the main nations that I know are definately in the oter universe's military**

**I own nothing  
-Laurel Silver**


	7. House of the Rising Sun

**Characters:  
Matt 'Canada' Williams  
Oliver 'England' Kirkland (Dad)  
Francois 'France' Bonnefoi (Papa)  
Nikolai 'Russia' Braginski  
Alfred S. 'America' Jones (Al)  
Scottie 'Scotland' Kirkland (Uncle Scottie)**

**Pairings; FrUK, past British family**

**Summary; Over the course of Matt's fourth teenagehood, Nikolai was his mentor. A strict mentor, but much better than Oliver or Francois would have been.**

**Note; from Matt's point of view  
Warnings; blood, gore, cannibalism, child abuse**

* * *

_The other universe, 6o years ago_

I sit quietly in Oliver's front room, toying with the fraying hem of my school trousers. Oliver hums merrily as he darns the worn-out knee of my old jeans. It feels strange to know I will probably never a school uniform again, but I had also felt this way the last time I'd worn one of the uniforms Oliver had given me. This is the end of my fourth childhood: the first as a nomad in my homeland, the second as French Canadia, the third as British Canada, the fourth as Nov' Kanada. Four puberties. Now that sucks.

My uniform makes me feel like I'm overdressed, the white shirt the seeming to be the only unstained fabric in this room. The smell of bleach is making me dizzy, breathlessness making the red cravat around my neck feel tight and strangling.

Al and Scottie are nowhere to be found. François is drinking his wine straight from the bottle.

* * *

_50 years before; 110 years ago_

I woke up warm, warmer than I had been when I fell asleep. I blinked the sleep from my eyes, and the room settled. It was large, old, decorated in grand Slavic furniture. I was laid on the rug in front of a blazing fire, wrapped a tight cocoon of woollen blankets.

I sat upright, shoving at the blankets until they crumpled into a nest around my waist. I was no longer in the typical hockey shirt and jeans I had been in when I collapsed, but in a large button-down shirt that smelt faintly of alcohol and sunflowers. I climbed out of the blankets, tripped over the tangle of fabric and smacked the floor with my face.

Rolled over, I stared upwards a few seconds as I fingered at my nose and forehead, finding no lumps or blood. Hung above the fire was a large portrait of a Russian soldier in full military uniform hand in hand with a plain-looking little girl in a yellow dress. I recognise the 'soldier' as Nikolai, the uniform from roughly the 1920's if my memory had served me right. I didn't recognise the girl.

Satisfied I was uninjured, I pulled myself up and realised I wasn't wearing underwear. I then realised that the shirt wasn't just large but _huge_; it almost reached my knees. I then realised that my legs were smooth and hairless, like a child's.

I stood up in shock, checking myself over. I had shrunk and de-aged, my body now about twelve years old.

The door behind me opened, and I don't remember if Nikolai's hulking size had been due to my new shrinkage or due to fear. He seemed to tower over me, twice my height, twice my width, all dark clothes and ragged scarf.

"Are you hungry?" he boomed. I was too afraid to respond with anything more than a fast nod. "Follow me."

I had to half-run to keep up with him, pulling the sleeves of the shirt, probably his, up my arms. His dining room was as tall as the living room had been, but much longer, occupied with a long table that could seat several dozen. He led me to the opposite end we had entered, where a large hatchway was set into the wall. He pulled out a chair and lifted me into it. I stiffened, his hands tight on my ribs. He pushed the chair closer to the table, the tips of the arms fitting underneath, and I was caged in by the wood.

Nikolai opened the hatch, carried across two empty bowls and spoons, putting one in front of me and one at the head of the table next to me. He returned to the hatch, picked up a large saucepan and brought it to the table, putting it down on a mat. Steam rose from the edge, and the handle of a ladle rested on the rim.

Nikolai picked up the ladle, "Tell me when it's enough. You can have several portions if you need it." He spooned a couple of ladlefuls of the deep red soup into my bowl, before I whispered 'thank you', and he began to spoon himself a portion.

I picked up my spoon, blowing carefully on the soup.

A growling cough. I looked up to Nikolai glaring at me, and I dropped the spoon with a clatter and a frightened squeak.

Nikolai finished serving himself, a large portion almost completely filling the bowl. I realised that the deep red liquid looked unnervingly like blood in the white dishes.

He sat down in his chair, folds his hand and bowed his head. I copied, and he spoke in calm, booming English; "The poor shall eat and be satisfied, and those who seek the Lord shall praise him; their hearts shall live forever. Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever and unto ages of ages, amen."

"Amen," I repeated, watching Nikolai carefully.

"Lord, have mercy," Nikolai said, head still bowed. After a few seconds of silence, his stare flicked across at me expectantly.

"Lord have mercy?" I squeaked.

Nikolai gave a small nod, and repeated; "Lord, have mercy."

"Lord, have mercy," I parroted.

"Lord, have mercy."

"Lord, have mercy."

"O Christ God, bless the food and drink of Thy servants, for Thou art holy, always, now and ever and unto the ages of ages, amen."

"Amen."

Nikolai nodded again, finally sitting upright and picked up his spoon. I sat up and grabbed my spoon, tasting the soup. It tasted strongly of beetroot, and my nerves relaxed; the red is from the root, not any sort of blood.

I ate quickly, hungrily, the soup settling hotly in my stomach and spreading its warmth from my insides out. Nikolai chuckled.

I finished the bowl quickly, and stood on the chair to serve myself another portion. Shrinking suddenly had left me unsure how much food my body needed, and the thought of leaving Nikolai's soup uneaten frightened me.

Nikolai remained sat with me as I finished my third portion. I ate quickly, and stare down at my legs when I finished.

He folded his hands and bowed his head again, and I frowned in confusion, but copied him again.

"Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever and unto the ages of ages, amen," he chanted.

"Amen," I said.

The second prayer was longer, again with the refrain of "Lord, have mercy." On the final amen, Nikolai was quiet a few seconds before he stood, and he pulled my chair out. I was careful as I hopped down, re-organising the shirt around me.

"You'll need some new clothes," Nikolai stated obviously, "I think some of Rainis' clothes should fit you; he was only a little man. Then I'll take you to your father's, if you'd like."

I didn't answer, but stared at my bare feet.

"Is something the matter?" Nikolai asked. He crouched, still slightly taller than me but much less daunting, "Do you not want to go to your father's?"

I shook my head. Oliver had had a mental breakdown only a few months before, triggered by stress and trauma after the Wars. He hadn't recovered, and the last I'd heard from Uncle Scottie was that he was hurting himself and others with his magic.

"How about your Papa's."

I shook my head again. François had been Oliver's carer since his breakdown. I lost contact with both of them shortly after hearing about this plan. I tried to visit both of their houses, but there had been no answer from either, no matter how much I had knocked and shouted.

"I can't let you back to Canada when you've turned into a child again."

I scratched the back of my ankle with the opposite foot. The carpet was red with gold flowers and vines. The flowers seemed to have been modelled after sunflowers.

Nikolai sighed. "I haven't looked after a nation-child before, but you've been looked after twice, so I doubt you'd be difficult to look after anyway. But you'll still need clothes. Come on; wear some of Rainis' old clothes, then we can sort you out some new clothes that will fit you properly."

He began to stride away down the dining room, and I was frozen in shock. Having dinner with the Russian was terrifying enough, being his _underling_ was almost unthinkable.

I had to practically sprint to catch up with him.

* * *

Rainis' clothes were too long on me, and itchy with dust. The grey clothes were coming undone at the seams, had a few moth bite holes, and smelt a little musty, but fit better than the single shirt had, and I was glad to be properly covered.

I opened the door to the hallway, where Nikolai had waited. "They're still a little big," I said quietly.

Nikolai frowned, and crouched. "Say that again, Mat… Mav… Matvei?"

I pulled a face at the new nickname, but I repeated myself anyway; "They're big."

"They are a bit," Nikolai agreed idly, "You are very quiet."

"Sorry," I mumbled.

"We'll need to get you new clothes. Do you want Canadian or Russian clothes?"

I blinked in surprise. It had the first time in far too long that someone had been able to tell the difference between me and Al. And of all the people, it had been _Nikolai_.

"I-I don't mind," I finally answered.

Nikolai stared evenly at me, frowning slightly as he thought. "Would you have a problem wearing… _traditional_ Russian clothes?" After a few seconds of alarmed silence, he continued; "I never had an underling to dress up before the whole… globalisation and all the cultures melting together, so… Never mind, it was a strange thing to ask-"

"It's okay," I said quickly as he paused, "I don't mind. At least you asked." It was more than François and Oliver had ever done.

Nikolai blinked, then managed a smile. Strangely, a genuine smile suited the creepy face well.

* * *

I tended to wear school uniforms, traditional Russian clothes making me look out-of-place among modernised clothes. On non-school days, I ended up with a lot of knitted sweaters, and red-and-white striped shirts Nikolai called telynashka, as well as several tunics Nikolai called kosovorotka. I had a red cotton coat similar to the telogreika Nikolai had worn in the Second World War, as well as an ushanka hat and some felt boots. My glasses had become too big for me, but my short-sightedness seemed to have vanished with my de-aging, so the glasses stayed in a drawer in the room Nikolai had given me.

Nikolai's first lesson for me was to learn to speak loudly.

"Are you familiar with any prose?" he asked me. We were in his office, a grand room with plush rugs on the floor and wooden panels on the walls and military memorabilia everywhere. He sat in the chair behind the huge oak desk, I stood at the opposite side. It was the first time I had faced him like this, and I was terrified.

"I read a lot of Shakespeare," I answered, "Chaucer, Tomas More, Skelton, Marlowe, Walter Raleigh, Bacon, Keats – wait, was he prose?"

"It doesn't matter. Go and stand facing that wall," he gestured to a wood panel by the door at the opposite side of the room to him.

I walked over quickly, stood soldier straight with my nose inches from the wood, hands clasped together behind my back.

"Recite something," Nikolai ordered.

I took a deep breath. "In Flanders Field the poppies grow, through the trenches row on row-"

"Didn't you hear me?" Nikolai snapped, and I jumped in shock, "I said; recite something."

"I was," I called over my shoulder.

"Face the wall!" Nikolai barked, "I didn't hear you. Start again, and be louder."

"In Flanders Field, the poppies grow-"

"I still can't hear you."

"Through the trenches-"

"Speak louder."

"Row on-"

"_Radi yebat' Matvei!_"

Another deep breath, and I tried again, voice barely below a shout. "In Flanders Field the poppies grow, through the trenches row on row,"

Nikolai didn't interrupt again. I stood for almost two hours reciting poetry, plays and prose from memory, until Nikolai decided it was time for lunch.

"O Christ God, bless the food and drink of Thy servants, for Thou art holy, then, now and ever and unto ages of ages, amen."

"Amen," I parroted. Nikolai looked across at me, eyebrow raised, before straightening.

A tall glass of orange juice stood by my lunch, a handful of ice cubes floating just below the yellow surface. I grabbed it first, the smooth surface cold and damp with condensation, and took a deep drink.

I choked, almost spitting the liquid out, and Nikolai shook with laughter. The strong taste of alcohol clung to my mouth as I swallowed the liquid, and I coughed.

"Was there _vodka_ in that?!" I gasped out, slamming the glass down onto the table.

Nikolai gave a small nod, holding back laughs behind a gloved hand clenched over his jaw.

"You _ass_!" I scolded, "I am twelve years old; you can't give me alcohol."

"You're in Russia. You can't _buy_ alcohol, but you can drink it from any age."

I gaped at him. "You mean you could give a _baby_ alcohol?!"

"Legally, yes. _I_ wouldn't. But that was funny."

"You have an awful sense of humour. You should be ashamed of yourself." I shoved the offending drink towards the centre of the table, gathered up a forkful of the salad and shoved it in my mouth.

The room was awfully silent for several seconds, and what I'd done punched me in the gut; I just told Nikolai Braginski off. And called him an ass. Oh, fuck.

Nikolai smacked his fist into the surface of the table, leaning forwards. He thumped his fist a few more times, shoulders shaking. Then he threw his head back, openly guffawing.

I sat in shock, potato and egg still half-chewed in my mouth as I stared dumbly at him.

Nikolai composed himself, cheeks lightly flushed with laughter. "You're cute, Matvei."

I didn't answer, just stared at him, finally swallowing the salad.

"You're not even twelve. You're over two hundred years old. Don't glare at me like I've committed a terrible crime. Drink your orange juice."

"I don't want the orange juice," I answered quietly.

Nikolai twitched in laughter. "Why do you not want your orange juice, Matvei?"

"Because it's got vodka in it!"

Nikolai collapsed into giggles again, and I glared passive-aggressively at him as I ate my salad.

* * *

I spent most of the next year like that; chanting morning and afternoon, sitting at Nikolai's left hand for meals, and Nikolai slipping vodka into my drinks at least once a week. After six months, he began to halt my recitals to send me on errands: refilling his tea, fetching books and paperwork, collecting firewood from the outhouse, even cooking every now and then. After seven months, my throat no longer ached constantly, and I spoke close to the volume I recited at. After ten months, I had stopped flinching every time I accidentally said something that anyone else would have screamed at me for, every time I made a minimal mistake, every time Nikolai patted me on the head.

A year after Nikolai had taken me in, I stood at his desk again, waiting to be ordered back to my panel.

But instead, Nikolai evenly stared at me, and asked; "How did you know so much poetry?"

"Dad liked to encourage us to read. So I read. A lot."

"But you weren't reading it. Stood over there, you were reciting it. I was expecting one or two Canadian poems then revert to song lyrics, then repeat the same pattern. I don't think you repeated any of them."

"I did. I recited a lot of Purdy, I liked his work. A little bit of McIntire as well, even if he was a little bit cheesy."

"But you know a lot of poetry from memory?"

"Yeah. I blame Dad."

"How?"

"Well, I haven't blamed him to his _face-_"

"No, not blaming your father," Nikolai said dully, "How did you memorise that much poetry? Was it to impress your father?"

"No. But my uncle was impressed- he could do something similar with short stories, just much better."

"Your uncle…?"

"Scottie. He told stories a lot."

"And he just… read them a few times and knew them?"

"No. He could read or hear something once, and he had it. But only really with stories, especially naval stories. He hated trying to learn boring stuff like instructions."

"What about plans? Plans of attack?"

"He _really_ hated learning those."

"What about you?"

I stared dumbly at him for several seconds. "I wouldn't know. I've never tried."

* * *

_Three years later; 106 years ago_

I stood in the gateway to Oliver's mansion. I had grown to the body of a fourteen year old, much faster than any of my previous childhoods. A suitcase with my some of my telynashka, uniform trousers and knitted sweaters hung from my hand.

Oliver's front garden used to be beautiful. It was huge, with long green lawns and gravel paths framed with rose bushes, red down one side and white down the other. But now, almost a hundred years after the Wars, the ground was just a dry brown wasteland, brittle thorns and dead branches the only remains of the bushes and trees Oliver used to love caring for. Closer to the house, more of these plant skeletons lay destroyed, smashed to pieces under foot.

I knocked on the door. My Papa, François opened it, eyes widening at me. "_Mathieu_?"

"Hi," I greeted awkwardly, "I know I haven't seen you in a while, but Nikolai, I've been living with Nikolai the past few years, and he said I outta come visit you and Dad at some point."

"Go away," François whispered firmly.

I frowned. "What?"

"You are not safe here. You're not really wanted here. Go back to Nikolai."

"But I just got here!"

"Who's that?" a voice called.

"_Please_ go," François said, "Leave, do not return until its safe, please just _go_."

"Who are you talking to, love?" François was pulled out of the way, Oliver appearing in the door instead. The white shirt I was used to seeing him in was pink. "You're not Alex. He's in his room."

"Alfred," François corrected.

"No, I'm not Alfred," I said.

"You're the other one," Oliver peered at me, "Max?"

"Not quite."

"Michael?"

"No."

"Matthaus?"

"Almost. Matthew."

"Matthew! Of course! Forgive me poppet; my head's all over the place these days."

He grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me into the house. Since I'd last visited, Oliver seemed to have developed a love for reds, oranges and pinks. François followed us quietly.

Oliver sat me down at the kitchen table. Dirty bowls and plates of cupcakes littered the kitchen, but instead of smelling like the delicious baked goods the air was heavy with the smell of bleach. As Oliver put a delicate cup of tea in front of me, I noticed the chemical burns on the back of his hands, the skin dry and peeling away. François sat down opposite me.

"Would you like a cupcake, love?" Oliver asked. He was practically bouncing on the spot. I don't think I'd ever seen him this happy. Triumphant, smug, and victorious, but never truly _happy_.

"I'd love one," it dawned on me suddenly that Nikolai doesn't seem to have much of a sweet tooth. The only time desserts had been served at his house had been during holidays.

Oliver put the cake in front of me, and I automatically bowed my head in prayer.

"What are you doing, sweetheart?" Oliver asked.

"Huh? Oh, I was… we usually pray before food."

"Who's 'we'?"

"Nikolai and I. I've been living with Nikolai. I didn't think either of you would mind too much, since you weren't very well, and Papa was looking after you."

"I'm fine," Oliver said. His earlier smile seemed forced now, and he stared at me unblinkingly.

"You are now," I agreed, "But you _weren't_. You were panicking and hallucinating, and Al wasn't well either, and Papa was looking after you both; I couldn't make him look after me as well."

"I'm fine," Oliver repeated, spitting the words.

"I can see that."

"At least he's here now, hm?" François said, touching Oliver on the forearm.

Oliver jumped, then sighed, "Yes, that's wonderful. Well, eat your cupcake dear."

I picked up the cupcake. The icing was white, and as I peeled away the paper case the sponge was red. I took a large bite, chewed quickly, then gagged. I spat it onto the saucer my teacup had been on. Oliver stared at me in shock. François was wincing.

"Was there _blood_ in that?!" I gasped out, dropping the bitten cake on the table.

"Oh, poppet, you know there have been food shortages," Oliver said calmly, stroking my hair.

I stared at him, barely able to breathe.

"It's your Uncle Scottie's blood," François said gently, "He's in the basement. He's mostly okay, just very tired."

"You know about this!" I screeched at him, "You were meant to be looking after him!"

François didn't answer.

"Hush, sweetheart," Oliver crooned, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and forcing my head into his chest, still stroking my hair through his fingers, "Don't be raising your voice like that, it's aggressive."

I shoved him off, and he squealed in shock. I stormed out the kitchen, through the hallway and upstairs. Al's bedroom was near the top of the stairs, the door red and decorated with blue and white stars.

I threw the door open. Al was not there, the room untouched since the revolution all those centuries ago, a thick layer of dust blanketing the outdated furniture, most of the fabrics eaten away by insects. The heavy air made me choke, and I slammed the door shut again, heading back downstairs.

"Where's Alfred?" I demanded.

"He's in his room," Oliver answers.

"No he isn't; I've just been up there."

François sighed. He opened a bottle of wine, screw-top and far below the high standard of his that I'm used to, and filled a mug with the strong-smelling liquid.

"He's got a new bedroom," Oliver said. His arms were folded behind his back and he rocked backwards and forwards on his feet.

"Where?" I asked shortly.

"You're being very brash, poppet. Why is it even so important to you?"

"Because I'm taking him and Uncle Scottie, and leaving."

François choked on his wine, spitting most of his mouthful out.

Oliver's false smile dropped completely to a disappointed scowl. "You're not taking my lovies anywhere."

"One of the reasons I didn't come back here when I de-aged was because you weren't safe to be around!" I said, "And you're still not safe, not for anyone to be around, never mind a child! You need serious help, Dad, but as much as I love you I can't be here, and I get the feeling Alfred and Uncle Scottie shouldn't be here either."

"They're absolutely fine, sweetheart," Oliver said, beginning to pace towards me. I backed away towards the kitchen door.

"If they're fine, why are they hidden?"

"They're not. We told you; your Uncle Scot is in the basement, and Allan is in his room."

"Scottie and Alfred, Dad. They're names are Scottie and Alfred.

"Oh, whatever," Oliver waved one of his hands dismissively then snapped it behind his back again, "Don't you want another cake, love?"

"I _really_ don't." I continued to back away as Oliver approached. My shoulder smacked into the door, and it creaked, making Oliver jump. I turned on my heel and dashed for the door.

I turned the front handle, but the heavy door did little more than rattle, the lock secured. An arm wrapped around my chest, a sharp pain in my neck, and I blacked out.

* * *

"Mattie? Earth to Mattie? Come in, Mattie? Bro? Mattie? Maaaatttttiiiiieeee?"

I blinked awake. I was cold, the floor beneath me was hard, and my joints were stiff.

Al sat next to me, aged about thirteen, in some sort of child's school uniform; button down shirt, navy tie, shorts and suspenders, knee socks and buckled shoes. I looked down at myself to find my telynashka and overalls replaced with a similar outfit, my tie being red and my hair fastened back in a matching ribbon. I hadn't even been aware my hair was long enough to be fastened back.

"Yo!" Alfred greeted noisily.

"Hi," I answered, "Where are we?"

"Part of the cellar. Oliver calls it 'my room', but as you can see, there's not much here."

The room was small, about ten paces long and twelve paces across. Metal hoops had been inlaid between the stone bricks, the grey streaked with red. A small window was set in the wall far too high above our heads for us to have any hope of reaching it. The door was iron, closed, and locked.

"Where ya been?" Al chattered. We sat side by side in the corner, staring at the door.

"Russia," I answered, "Nikolai found me. Alaska, he said I was."

"First name basis, huh?" Al pulled a disgusted face, "Not hurt ya, has he?"

"No. He was kinda scary at first, but I got used to him. He's okay, really. He lets me use his library, and it's got so many books and old posters and artefacts and stuff in it. You'd love exploring it, Al, and his house is real old, and it's got secret passages all over the place, and weapons on display, and old paintings and maps-"

I was interrupted by a scratching noise. Al gasped.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Uncle Scottie," Al whispered, "He escapes 'his room' sometimes, and tries to help me escape. We haven't much success so far, but we're getting better at it, and one day we're gonna get away!"

A loud click, and the door opened inwards. Uncle Scottie collapsed forwards with a grunt.

"Uncle Scottie?" I asked warily. He didn't move. Al counted to five under his breath. Uncle Scottie still didn't move.

Al jumped up, running out the door, stepping carefully over our uncle. "Come on, we gotta go!"

"But what about Uncle Scottie?"

"He made me promise if he doesn't move for five seconds, to just leave him. He doesn't wanna be a hindrance, he said."

"But we gotta help him!"

"We gotta help ourselves first!"

I stood up and ran over to Al. I glanced down at Uncle Scottie as I passed. Both of his arms were covered in bandages, the white fabric soaked in blood. His trousers, not the kilt I remembered him wearing, were full of holes, and his shirt was caked in blood and dirt. The string of an eye patch sat in his crimson hair.

Al grabbed me by the hand and dragged me away. He turned left, running towards a flight of stairs. We stepped up them carefully and quietly, afraid of every little creak. The door at the top was closed. Al pressed himself against the wood, holding his breath as he listened. He nodded to give me the all-clear, and opened the door.

We snuck out, hands still clasped together. His palm was clammy with sweat, his fingers digging almost painfully into the back of my hand.

The front door was still locked. We froze at the rattle, then Al led the way to the back door, pulling me behind him.

The back door was in the kitchen. And so were Oliver and François. François sat at the kitchen table, wine bottle almost empty, mug cradled in his hand. Oliver leant against the counter, whistling a tune as he mixed a red cake batter.

After several tense minutes, Oliver turned to the counter, searching through a cupboard for something. Al seized the opportunity, sprinting across the kitchen and out the back door, dragging me behind him, clinging to his smaller hand for dear life. He threw the door open, and I vaguely heard Oliver screech something before we were racing across the dead garden, kicking up dust under our buckled shoes.

At the end of the garden, the hedgerow had been torn out, probably after it died, to be replaced with a tall wire fence. Al threw his back against it, lacing his fingers together to hoist me up.

I stepped on him and he threw me, his superstength sending me almost to the top of the fence. I caught the wire by my hands first, almost falling down before I managed to ram the pointed toes of my shoes in between the wire. I looked down at Al, who was beginning to climb up himself.

But Oliver was hardly steps behind, and he snatched Al by his hips, dragging him back to the ground. Al flailed, smacking Oliver wildly in the face directionlessly before Oliver could sink the needle into him, stabbing him in the stomach and shoving the plunger down, the clear contents giving Al a short seizure before he collapsed.

I scrambled up and over the fence, my sleeve catching on the stray wire at the top before I jumped down, landing in a crouch.

"You can't leave me," Oliver shouted after me as I ran away, "You've got nowhere to go; no money, no food, no clothes. The only other person who even knows you exist is at the opposite end of Europe. You're going to have to come back."

* * *

Night had fallen. I had sat in the park most of the day, hidden in a corner. My uniform was old-fashioned, making me look completely out of place, and therefore easy to spot.

I stood at the gate of the Kirkland mansion. Two of the lights were on. One downstairs, and a silhouette kept flitting forwards and back, pacing continuously. The second light was what used to be my bedroom.

The gate opened smoothly, and clanged shut behind me. The pacer froze, then dashed in the direction of the hallway. The front door opened, and a figure peered out into the darkness.

I walked up the path, the remaining gravel crunching under my feet. As I neared the building, the figure became distinguishable; tall, slim, long hair, a mug still clamped in his hands. His shoulders twitched every few seconds, and as I got closer to him I could hear his drunken hiccups.

"Mathieu?" François called.

"Yeah," I answered.

"I told you to get away, didn't I?" he sighed, collapsing to a sitting position.

"Yeah."

We remained in silence for several seconds.

François stood suddenly, swaying dangerously and spilling some of his drink. It was too dark to be his wine, but still smelt strongly of alcohol. At this point, François was probably too drunk to care.

He stumbled into the house, falling down next to the cabinet. He clawed about underneath it, pawed out a thick envelope. Sitting up, he held the envelope out for me to take.

"The last of mine and your uncle's money," he gurgled, "Should be enough to buy you a cheap change of clothes and get you back to Russia. Go, do not come back."

I took the envelope, and ignored my growling stomach and tired eyes as I ran.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon in Russia when I arrived. I ran in, and straight to Nikolai's office. At first I thought it was empty, until the door slammed shut behind me.

Nikolai stood over me, pipe raised, eyes wide in threat. He froze, hands twitching to strike, as he blinked in recognition.

"You're back quickly," he said dumbly. He lowered the pipe and took a step back.

"My Dad's a cannibal," I gasped out, barely able to breathe, "He's torturing my uncle and brother, taking their blood, and baking them into cupcakes."

Nikolai stared at me for several seconds before he groaned in exasperation. He strode past me, sitting back behind his desk, hiding his pipe away.

"We have to go help them!" I cried.

"Help who?"

"Al and Scottie!"

"We can't."

I gaped at him. "What do you mean we _can't_?"

"We're in the aftermath of a war. Neither of our countries can afford Scottish-American rescue missions. England has control over them, and there is nothing we can do about it."

"You mean you _knew_?! Did you _know_ he was torturing them?!"

Nikolai sighed. "You need to calm down, Matvei."

"Calm down?! You fucking _knew_!"

"Yes, I knew. Oliver told me himself. He's been on the phone for almost three months now, begging me to let you visit."

"He knew I was here?"

"I contacted François soon after you decided to stay. Clearly, Oliver found out. He threatened to invade you if I didn't make you visit."

I stared at Nikolai for several seconds, fists clenching and unclenching. With a yell, I seized a glass paperweight and threw it. It smashed against the wall as I stormed out.

I stole a bottle of vodka from the kitchen and hid in the empty trunk in my room. Nikolai didn't come looking for me, and either never noticed the missing bottle or never mentioned it when I was in the dining room the next morning. He let me eat as much as I liked and sleep the rest of the morning. New clothes arrived a day later.

* * *

Oliver never arrived at Nikolai's mansion. He called a few more times, but Nikolai managed to find reasons for me not to go to England.

At least, until now. Oliver had insisted that I had to visit when I become an adult again, promising it would only be for the day, and I would return to Russia that night.

Al and Scottie are nowhere to be found. François is drinking his wine straight from the bottle. A chain is wrapped around his ankle, connected to an iron loop in the floor. Oliver hands the jeans to me, beaming with pride.

I try the jeans on in the toilet of the train from Kent to Dover. They are a little large on my hips, but my red suspenders holds them up. I fold up my red school cravat, putting it in my pocket, and unfasten the top buttons of my shirt.

* * *

**Girl in painting is Anastasia Romanov  
****The soup was borscht, a beetroot salad  
****Telynashka are striped shirt worn by members of the Russian military, different colours standing for different branches of the military. I couldn't find anything red stood for, so assumed that would be a 'safe' colour to go with. If it does already stand for something, drop me a message and I can only apologise and find an alternative  
****"Radi' yebat Matvei" means "For fuck sake Matthew"  
****The salad was salat Olivier, a potato/egg salad  
****Matt learns Nikolai's plans, and reminds him what those plans were  
****The 'clear contents' of the needle is actually just air. Bubbles of pure air in the blood stream will cause the person to have a heart attack, killing them. Of course, Al will recover**

**Title comes from The Animal's song 'House of the Rising Sun'. I think it fits Matt well. I'm not sure where this chapter came from though; it _started_ as a sort-of song fic, and just escalated. Sorry.**


	8. Paroxysm

**Characters;  
Nikolai 'Russia' Braginski  
(Duchess) Anastasia Romanova  
Matt 'Canada' Williams (Matvei)  
Lutz 'Germany' Weilschmidt  
Al 'America' Jones  
Oliver 'England' Kirkland**

**Summary; ****Nikolai learns to master his magic**

**Note; Matt is physically about sixteen, Al about thirteen/fourteen. Matt lives with Nikolai, Al lives with Oliver  
Warnings; gore, torture, body horror and disciplinary methods**

Paroxysm;** a sudden attack of a particular emotion**

* * *

_Joy + Joy = Ecstasy _

It's an old dream of Nikolai's to be surrounded by sunflowers, an image prevalent when he sleeps, a sanctuary in his daydreams.

Nikolai sits quietly on the dry ground, scarf writhing either side of his torso as he thinks. He lets the ends rise and reach forwards, hovering over a patch of mud. It cracks.

A green shoot rises from the split, leaves peeling back to reveal a tight bud of long, yellow petals. The flower head opens and spreads as the stalk grows, woody and hollow, taller and taller.

As Nikolai stands up, the sunflower is already significantly taller than him. The ground seems to shake as the cracks spread, more green stalks rising and blooming into heavy yellow. They surround him, flowers bowing over his head until they block out the sky.

"Lumos." The ball of white light rises above him, seeming to glow yellow surrounded by the long petals, the seeded faces staring down. He fills every angle of his possible vision with the symbols of happiness, the smell so heavy on the air he feels dizzy. It's quite literally a dream come true.

_Joy + Sadness = Melancholy_

The old violin hovers, Nikolai needing very little concentration to keep it steady. However, figuring out how to hold down the strings without touching the instrument has taken some thinking, as well as how to keep the bow taught if he cannot feel the way it pulls on the strings. But Nikolai has all the time he could wish for to play around with his magical capabilities, and the tune he practices is simple, an old piece.

Korobeiniki is a folk song, but fun to play, familiar worldwide. But despite Nikolai's experience with both the song and the instrument, the notes are clunky and slow, drawn out and sometimes off key, like that of a child's. Like that of a young child's, a duchesses', frowning at the paper as she tries again and again and again, determined to show her friend 'Gospodin Braginski' what she's learnt. And Gospodin Braginski had applauded her every time.

_Joy + Disgust = Intrigue_

Nikolai watches the ends of his scarf rise over his head, then lets them drop again. He raises them again, and drops them. He's never had this amount of magic ability before.

The scarf wraps around Matt's waist, hoisting him into the air. However, the hold is sloppy and flimsy, leaving Matt hanging upside down.

"Please tell me I'm not going to become your magic-practice guinea pig," he grumbles.

"Of course you are going to be my guinea pig," Nikolai says plainly, "This is a lot of magic to master."

He unravels the scarf from Matt's waist, and Matt reflexively braces himself for impact with the floor. But instead, as Nikolai focuses, he hovers in the air.

Nikolai grins like a child. This is going to be fun.

_Joy + Fear = Surprise_

Lutz sneaks up on Nikolai, paper bag in hand already blown up. He raises his hands, grin in place, and Matt just stares at him from the other side of the desk in a mix of fear and anticipation.

Nikolai flicks two fingers in the general direction of 'behind him', the magic needing very little directing to send Lutz flying across the room to into the wall.

Lutz grunts as he falls down. The paper bag bursts on the floor, making all three men jump. Magic, still not quite fully mastered, hits the bag and sets it aflame, Lutz yelping as it burns his fingers.

The following April Fools Day, Lutz doesn't bother trying to prank Nikolai.

_Joy + Anger = Righteousness_

Nikolai watches, poker faced, as he lets the rope holding Al up drop. The American lands on the floor ungracefully.

"This is the fourth time this week you've been caught trespassing in my house," Nikolai says, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "And it's only Tuesday."

"Maybe I like hanging upside down from the ceiling," Al responds sarcastically.

Nikolai rolls his eyes. Then stares at Al, a realisation dawning on him.

He focuses on Al, directing magic at the American's stomach. Al's stomach gurgles loudly before he doubles over in pain, clutching his middles with a yell, a burning sensation devouring his insides. The agony spreads from his stomach into his intestines, fast and angry. He screams, and a smoke escapes his throat as the pain spreads to his lungs, deep red and smelling foully of harsh chemicals and burnt meat.

Nikolai teleports Al back to Britain, a message of warning to Oliver, as Al's spine is devoured by the strengthened stomach acid, leaving him unable to thrash, only scream incoherently, as his body bubbles and burns.

_Sadness + Sadness = Despair_

Nikolai sits on the floor of his room, staring at the doll. A pottery doll made by a wealthy supporter of the monarchy, it depicts five-year-old Anastasia, all rosy cheeks and shiny eyes and curly hair.

The doll blinks. She takes a cautious step forwards, pulling herself out of her frame as she walks, magic filling her hollow frame. Her porcelain shoe skids on the floor, and she falls, her brittle hips and thighs smashing against the floor.

Nikolai stares in alarm. The doll's mouth hangs open in a silent scream of agony as Nikolai curls up, knees pressed into his chest, and cries.

_Sadness + Disgust = Self loathing_

Scarf sat on his bed, Nikolai runs his fingers over his neck, the flesh feeling almost scaly with scars. Thin lines encircle his throat, criss-crossed, dull and pale after so many years of sitting hidden under scarfs and high necklines.

Nikolai focuses on the lines, letting magic fill them. The flesh forcibly heals, burning pain shooting through the dry skin and burrowing into his soft throat. As the lines seal over with delicate new skin, the pain intensifies until it feels like a series of knives buried to the hilt, his breath short and panting, tears of agony dripping down his face.

He caves, hands still on his neck. The soft, fresh skin peels away, leaving the old scars red and angry.

Nikolai pulls his scarf around him, burying his face in it. The stitches make him itch as he curls up in bed, forcing himself to sleep.

_Sadness + Fear = Anxiety_

Matt groans in his sleep, writhing as he fight some imaginary demon. Nikolai checks the teen's temperature again, shushing him. He's overheating again, so Nikolai throws the blanket over the back of the couch and returns to his book.

Unfortunately, as he's not overly sure what sort of magic he'd been messing with, he's not sure what he accidentally hit Matt with, so he has no idea where to start with healing magic. So far, Matt hasn't shown any major symptoms of anything, just tiredness, a swinging temperature and night terrors, which could be pretty much anything.

Sighing, Nikolai closes the book and checks Matt's temperature. The skin is cold as ice, and Nikolai pulls the blanket back over him again before he sits on the floor next to him. He's just going to have to wait this out.

_Sadness + Anger = Betrayal_

"I have never been so betrayed," Nikolai says gravely, glaring over his desk.

Matt stares back evenly. "I'm pretty sure you have."

"This is not a joke, _Matvei_!"

"It's hard to take you seriously when you're bitching about fermented potatoes."

"Missing vodka is a serious issue, Matvei!"

Matt rolls his eyes. He is given the ruler and spends the next week without sweets. The missing vodka bottle is found under Nikolai's bed.

_Disgust + Disgust = Prejudice_

Nikolai weaves through the room, handing out the large chunks of gingerbread. As Matt's fourteen hundredth 'birthday' nears, his French and English siblings have arrived and filled the old ballroom, covering a table in alcohol and sweets. Matt flits from person to person, munching through sweet after sweet. He's going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow, mixed with a sugar crash, but it's his own fault.

Al reaches for the tray, for the final piece. Nikolai turns casually away, scanning the room for anyone without gingerbread, but everyone, physically ranging from small children to young adults, has a piece. Damn.

Nikolai quickly grabs it, taking a large of bite himself. Al whines, and Nikolai innocently pretends to have only just noticed him. "Oh, I'm sorry, did you not get a piece?"

"No I didn't, and you know I didn't," Al snaps. His accent has become more and more Southern over the years, "You did that on purpose."

"Yes I did."

"You're prejudiced against me because I'm American."

"Yes I am."

"You're an asshole."

"Only to you."

_Disgust + Fear = Revulsion_

Nikolai flicks through the book, the fire in front of him crackling and snapping as it barely stays alight. The book is wrong, completely biased, and it disgusts him. Early women warriors disregarded, cruel leaders recast into the light of heroes and martyrs, artifacts misunderstood, completely ridiculous stories woven from simple pictures depicting basic housework, mistranslated stories recorded as either the truth or a crazy old belief.

Nikolai throws the book into the fire, shoving the paper edge into the glowing log until it catches, orange flames reaching up, the pages blackening and curling, the false words being eaten, lies finally forgotten.

_Disgust + Anger = Loathing_

The wind scatters the dust over the dry ground. There has been less and less snow, then less and less rain, then less and less clouds. The days are long, hot and bright, the sun bearing down relentlessly.

Nikolai used to dream of sunny days, but when faced with the sun never-ending he's grown to hate the way it dries out the ground and the way his clothes become heavy and the way his skin burns and peels and hurts. It's a cruel irony.

_Fear + Fear = Terror_

Nightmares are normal to immortals. Torture, war, forced servitude and superstition pulled together into imaginary hells. But these, Nikolai can handle. He's lived them in person, and while they're awful to face again Nikolai has developed a mindset of "If I've survived it before, I can survive it again".

However, the subconscious has a bad habit of mixing more modern memories into old ones. And recently, a lot of Nikolai's attention has been taken up by teaching and taking care of Matt. Matt, who still strikes Nikolai as a child, despite having stood by him on the battlefields of World War One, Two and Three, having stood against him in the Cold War, having trained and taught him personally many times. Matt will always be a child to old nations like Nikolai. And the fact he had reverted to a child for the fourth time and Nikolai has watched him grow back into adulthood has left Nikolai with a strange parental protective instinct over Matt.

So when Nikolai bolts upright in the middle of the night, Matt caught in a Breaking Wheel, arms bloody and angled, the bones splintered and forcing their way out of his skin, vultures and buzzards tearing at the skin of his chest and stomach, is an image burned almost permanently behind his eyelids.

_Fear + Anger = Hatred_

Al grins from behind the desk, eyes darting around. Matt's book sits on the desk, ribbon bookmark two thirds of the way down. Nikolai has worked hard on his ability to sense people arriving at the house, and his ability to bullshit a reason for Matt to have to leave for a while.

"And what has your darling father sent this month?" Nikolai offers dryly.

"Me," Al says, waving awkwardly. Al has reverted to a teen again, re-growing much slower than Matt did, the American's voice squeaky and about to break any day, "Me for Matt."

"Hardly a fair trade."

"Rude."

Nikolai stares evenly, eyebrow quirked.

Al sighs. "Dad really wants to see Matt again."

"See him or eat him?"

"There is more to Dad than his cannibalism."

"I'm aware. In the same way there's more to you than all the things I hate, but I can't be bothered to find them out so you're just going to have to fuck off."

"Rude."

_Anger + Anger = Rage_

Nikolai stands in the middle of where his sunflower field used to be. The dry, grey stalks lay dead on the ground. The sun beats down, increasing Nikolai's migraine. No amount of focus will revive the dead plants. Not that it's worth it- with no more rain, the flowers would die again within the day.

It takes almost nothing, little more than a stare at the plants, for the woody stalks to set alight, the smoke thin and grey as the old symbol of happiness burns to ashes.

* * *

**You all learned a word today**

**Korobeikini is the song used in Tetris  
Nikolai is strict as hell. Matt's not usually in trouble, though  
'The ruler' refers to being smacked on the knuckles with a (usually wooden) ruler. This is now considered child abuse in the UK, and I'm unsure if it is in Russia as well, but older nations will probably revert to old techniques.  
Matt has one hell of a sweet tooth  
A lot of history is actually _wrong_, basically because of a combination of guesswork, misunderstandings and bias. However, just writing this in a history exam won't get you anywhere. And a lot of more modern history is accurate, due to the introduction of record keeping and technology.  
'Breaking Wheel', or a Catherine Wheel, is a wooden wheel used in torture. The victim's arms would be tied to the spokes, then the wheel is turned, the victim's arms beaten with hemmers until they break in numerous places, the breaks forced through the skin. The victim would then often be left to bleed, or to be picked at by birds.  
Oliver is a cannibal  
Nikolai doesn't trust Oliver with Matt**

**Guess who saw Inside Out recently**

**I own nothing  
-Laurel Silver**


End file.
